I tried coming back at the wrong time. I basically came back and saw jark was no longer an admin. I read of what was going on (I am a jark watcher so I read his "conspiracy theories" which he wrote after his removal). I found Jark's sentiments to be echoed by many others concerned with the state of DA (some of whom were conveniently removed). I left as soon as I came. Basically I think I now have the energy to leave DA be. Whether it was this bad beforehand (before jark was fired) I'm not sure, but I have seen how things have fallen apart since. Goodbye.-Laura-

Return. I have not been around DA so there can be no feelings that everything has changed, but I know it must have. It is the ember of desire that brings me back, something continuing to glow and sparking at the slightest touch.

Anything I could say beyond this is nothing more than relating my life, but this was my intention. After all, as I know this place has changed, so have I.

Life as I have known it:To start, whereas before I could write of love but never claim to have felt it, I can now say with a certain sense of satisfaction to have been in love, to have felt the bonding of souls and heart beating for two instead of one. On a Tuesday in February, shortly before I would turn 18 I fell in love. I originally did not think he was as attractive as I could have wanted, indeed he was fat and proud, a trait which took me a little time to overcome, but that I realized I could overcome. After all, an aversion towards being fat is ingrained in us by society, this is what I believed...I was right.

I fell in love with a man (although even now he is only 17, soon to be 18, in my eyes he is more of a man than most guys ever can hope to be) who made me laugh, a romantic who could always spark a fire within me and what passion we shared. When I was with him, I truly felt like a woman and loved him all the more for that. When I was with him...Jeremy.

During the course of dating, he helped me in many ways, the most important of which is to be more social. He helped me gain a deeper understanding of myself. Before we even started dating he knew I was trasgendered, that did not bother him, in fact he enjoyed the crossdressing. I also initially told him I was bisexual, but I soon came to the realization that I was simply gay.

It was a few months later and the topic of whether I wanted to transition arose. Initially I said no, I had planned to go on hormones but would stop there. Initially I said no. The thought lingered in my mind and each time he asked the no grew less pronounced. It got to the point where no became an i don't know and even then I would feel like I was denying what I truly wanted. It finally came out as a yes. I had finally accepted myself, without any reservations, to be a transsexual.

For a while we stayed together, and I reassured him that if we did stay together he would not be alone, there are other guys who have dealt with their partners transitioning. It affected our relationship even when it was not the topic at hand, the unspoken words. We ended up staying together for maybe two more months before he called it off. We had dated for six months and we thought we would be together forever. (What little we knew.)

But, the breakup we both knew was coming and so we are still friends, best friends. In my experience now it is true that line between love and friendship is thin, if it were not for the sex it would be nonexistent.

I had told at least one person on DA of my other name (whether she remembers or not), it is Laura. The avatar I chose is the trans pride symbol with a purple background (it took forever to find a good hue of purple, and I am still not happy with it!) It will do. I have rid of any sex since I really no longer believe in such a label, granted it does ask for gender so I could put female. In general, I am returning by my own means.

When I was at the diversity workshop for college (I got to be an active part, the only trans in the crowd, heeheeheeheehee) a point was raised about minorities. The speaker asked how many people who are caucasian thought about the fact that they were caucasian nearly every day. A few people stood up, but this was out of over a hundred. Then the speaker asked how many people in a racial minority thought about the fact that they were part of a racial minority nearly every day. Almost every person stood up. This sparked the thought that any minority thinks about the fact that they are part of a minority nearly everday (myself included). It also posed the question why?

Granted I found my answer but I am not in the mood to go into that at the present moment. The point is that if anyone thinks I am now being flamboyant, know that expressing something about oneself cannot be regarded as flamboyance if it is constantly on one's mind.

Anyway, now that I have said that disclaimer...oh yes poems. What fleeting things, I should have forgotten them altogether. Joking of course. I have quite a few things to submit so do not think this cessation has been wasted. Also I need a labrat to read a ten page poem and tell me what they think it's worth. Also, the trend of surrealism has not disappeared from my poetry. If I can work on it some more, it will be a style I will be using quite often.

Other than this, for those still reading I leave ye with a few words:Forever, by the measure of man, is a very short amount of time

On Tuesday of this week, school started once again. Time became evident, one dream sequence was traded for another, the translucent figure representing life once again becomes tangible and recognized by itself (androgynistic term aside) and others.

The classes: Psychology; Jazz Ensemble; Creative Writing (1st semester); Philosophy (2nd semester); Calculus; AP Physics; and English. Needless to say, i'm in up to my head and reverting to living a life of repitition where every day is the same as yesterday and tomorrow holds little (if any) more meaning. But that is part of school....The world needs eight-day weeks and three-day weekends; but then the schedules would be screwed up and somehow revised for the worse. But that is part of school.

They say people dream in black and white, in a manner clearly defined. Whether true or not, it is a trait in my family to dream in color. Am i the only one who does this, who has dreams that mimic reality so closely that, as they are occuring, they seem real. Who, immediately after, wonders whether they in fact occured. The people i see are usually people i know, the places are places i have usually been, but, most importantly, dreams represent the deepest desires; they reveal what cannot be faced once awake. Many memories of such dreams in the past. In retrospect, these desires exhibited in dreams are now desires exhibited when awake.

Two questions:1) Are your dreams in black and white or full color? If color, is the color of the world realistic, symbolic, or surreal?2) What is the significance of black and white or color in dreams?

-----The rambles of the night before always seem selfish the day after. With this intention the last journal was deleted.

I have only recently seen a night so dark to be devoid of light. I have recently only been to a place so quiet to be deplete of human treads. A few weeks ago i went on vacation to a house by a lake. Outside the back window was a view of a mountain range just south of the Smoky Mountains. It was beautiful, it was silent, and the night had such cloud coverage that not a single star shined. I sat out once and watched the sunset and the successive evening only to come in a few minutes before all light faded (hisses at self for that). There is also a picture of this mountain view with fog across it.

The place was inspriing.

---I have organized the levels of poets into four general categories. Granted this does not actually work because, by my definition of a poet, a poet cannot necessarily even write poetry. That is to say, a poet or artist in my view is someone who challenges standards, conforms to their own, takes a step back from the flow of the world to get the perspective of one not involved in it, and is considered quite insane by "normal" society for all of the above. Anyway...this is written in relation to the "rules" of poetry. One who:

1) Ignores the rules.Nearly all poets start out in this category. In starting, someone cannot place limitations on themselves. First they learn to develop their own way of writing (such as the form, the words, how they express themselves) and, after so long of doing this, move to become...

2) Follows the rulesThe poet has developed a writing style more or less and now that the basics are covered they attempt to expand their ability. They learn the different techniques that can be used and experiment until they are comfortable with them. Each experiment moves to successively harder concepts and different forms of writing are used (especially structures). After following certain rules for so long, the person more than comfortable with them moves to the next level.

3) Breaks the rulesBored or merely looking for something different, the poet bends and eventually breaks the rules that they learned and adhered with devotion. This tends to be characterized by much experimentation outside the ordinary boundaries and has many things based on the manipulation of the traditional concepts of poetry. After years of this rebelliousness, the person comes back to these rules and becomes...

4) Redefines the rulesAfter so long of breaking the rules, a person sees they have developed their own set. They have an innovative approach and have come back to introduce it into the traditions of poetry. They write of these new rules, of their developments over the years and, if they are popular by now, there are groups that form to emulate every aspect of their style. If they are not popular by this time, the most they can usually do is know they have accomplished something for their own self and hope that their work reaches someone who is either already great or find someone who will be great. If this is the case, they will acheive some post-mortem popularity and glory but, more importantly, their style will have its name written in history as influential.

Of course, by the nature of poetry, not everyone follows this form. Some decide to go so far and stop, being content with what they have. After all, poetry is about being an individual above all else, something which has been affirmed, denied, or ignored by poets over the course of time.

-As for me, I believe myself to be following rules currently, but also bending and sometimes breaking them at any point possible (especially at line structure).

---Concerning a paradox:The world is filled with such things, especially when human tempering is concerned.

The Catholic church holds two beliefs that will be focused on: 1) There is no such as pre-destination (that something is to happen in a specific way by fate)2) God alone controls our deathThe paradox by now should be obvious, but why miss a chance to write it. This was better as a fresh thought.

If God alone controls our fate, then every aspect of our death is destiny. The problem is if this is destiny, then it was as such since before our birth, meaning it was predestined. The church says that god alone controls death because otherwise they could possibly be advocating suicide, euthanasia, mercy killing, murder, and things of such manner. However, the church generalizes. It is true that we do not have control over natural death; however, we can influence it greatly by our the way we live. That is, the ordinary aspects of a lifestyle: diet; care of the body and mind; exposure to stress; where and how one lives.On the other side, the fact is, whether the church says yay or nay, that we do have the choice of death, although not the choice of life, we can reproduce but beyond the act everything else is out of our hands. We cannot choose who we are, we can accept or deny it, but not choose. Anyway, by free will we can choose to continue living until something kills us or end life by taking it into our own hands. It is a choice; after all, life is composed of variegated physical processes, each one working working in conjunction in order to sustain the body at every second.In religion this year the textbook, which if it was not preachy i might have taken it seriously, said that the church does not advocate the use of extraordinary means to preserve life. Taking this out of context, it is seen that what our body does every single second of the day to preserve life is an extraordinary mean because life itself is extraordinary. When considering that it arose from simple chemical reactions (or at least i believe as such) that repeated and combined with many other chemical reactions of like nature, it is vexing that it could even happen or, worse, have come this far (but i feel this way about reality in general). So to say that extraordinary means is not necessary, in my little devilish heretic's mind, is the same as admitting that humans have the right to confer death upon their own person.

School's out. Finals over. Hmm...700 messages. I'll get to them when I can; but for now, 'tis too late.

I have written much since I was away, I shall submit when I feel like it, but many of them are actually liked (which has been rare) and are...different, no better way to describe them.

----During school I felt down to reality, someone was there to remind me almost everyday that there was a world outside of my mind and the small house to which I am self-confined. Now, this ends; this coming out into the world, i shall again fade away for a few months, forgetting reality to create my own.

This is not so bad as the fact that what will become my greatest connection to the world is one of the things that isolates me from it, although this can be applied to poetry in general.

I want everyone who reads this to ask me 3 questions, no more no less. Ask me anything you want. Then I want you to go to your journal, copy and paste thisallowing your friends (including myself) to ask you anything.

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Saturday is the Kentucky Derby and the SAT test. Well, the actual attendance of the Kentucky Derby is for areas outside of Louisville anyway. The race that the locals attend for a good time without the drunken maniacs in the infield is the day before called the Oaks; this is when all the fillies race. I've only been to this once and that was quite a while ago, but it is enjoyable nevertheless. That is all, except for major traffic control that never seems to work out and fireworks last weekend that could be heard from our house fifteen or so miles away (fun stuff, no really), during Thunder over Louisville that is.

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Again, if I do not comment yet submit and reply, it is because I am not here until June, in which case it will be summer and I will have time to comment. Sorry, 50-100 deviations a week is getting too much at the present. I have commented some but there's still plenty left. So if I comment on a dev. or journal three months after it is written This is why.

I have recently viewed the (brilliant, obviously) changes to the poetry section and i have one thing to say: WHAT THE FUCK!

I am rather agitated because they have eliminated the dark section for one. What else can it be called, philosophical? Is angst philosophical, because that constitutes over half of the dark poems out there unfortunately. Maybe the groups devoted to dark poetry could help persuade DA otherwise or to at least give the choice of old-poetry structure as an option for the newer poems. This sounds like they are trying to eliminate the submission of dark poetry, in that case, expect the miscellaneous section to be littered with such works . Anyway, this means war which I am too lazy to fight. So if anyone knows someone to voice this opinion to, do so for me and the sake of poetry. Other than this, check out there structural changes and see all the glory/havoc they/"the collective rectum" (appropriately for the situation) have worked/wreaked now/now.

---

On another note, If I do not comment yet submit and reply, it is because I am not here until June, in which case it will be summer and I will have time to comment. Sorry, 100 deviations a week is getting too much at the present.

I woke up this morning in a poetic mood. It was raining outside so I decided to walk out in shorts and sandals. Succumbing to the cold, I put on a shirt and did so again, just standing there to feel the water cross my body. I then tried writing something but nothing would come, it was too cold outside. Nevertheless it was a poetic morning.

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"A skirt is liberating."I remember these words spoken by a teacher. They had a direct intent when spoken, but they contained several different layers unintended.I don't know why I recall this, but I was trying to think of something good for a signature.

This is the poem "The Conqueror Worm" (by Edgar Allen Poe) which i occasionally refer to and find much onspiration from. I find it interesting because it relates life to a stage. In it the balconies are the heavens and the stage is the Earth. The meter is iambic but with no set number (it varies between 2 & 4 iambs). Every other line there should be two spaces, but this journal entry will not allow this.- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years!An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears,Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears,While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low,And hither and thither fly - Mere puppets they, who came and goAt bidding of vast formless things That shift scenery to and fro,Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo!

That motley drama - oh, be sure It shall not be forgot!With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not,Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot,And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude!A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude!It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs The mimes become its food,And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued.

Out - out are the lights - out all! And, over each quivering form,The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm,While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirmThat the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

It is always a pain to submit new journals, one grows attached to the provious journal and consequently sees it as a mark of pride. This makes the fact that eventually one should post something new difficult and delays it until absolutely necessary. Love of the Shadows i beleive to be lost in the abyss of memory.

To those who delete deviations, I ask one question: Why? Granted, it is your work and by this you have the freedom to do what you want with it, but is the work no longer being desired by yourself really a reason. Apparently it was desired at one time and is not that the reason it was submitted in the first place? Another point, one may find it worthless, but there will always be others who will find value.

In every poem written one can find themself. So why would one not want a history of yourself. Is it better to be a blank page, a faceless name, than to have something for people to look back on and see how much the writing has developed; to see the feelings, moods, thought , memories, hopes, despairs, and aspirations of the time. For poems are representations of ourselves, they contain our every thought and allow access to who we are.

Poems are our blood poured onto paper in mystic figures recognized by many as words; words compile to create tangible representations of thoughts. Thoughts which are profundities which some relate to whilst to others all meaning is lost. To disown a poem is to disown a part of one's self. To scorn this writing is to scorn a creation made in the image of oneself.

So again I pose this question: Why deny yourself, trying to hide behind a front of perfection? Why keep yourself from others, when there are those who want to see your face? How can you destroy your soul.

Written for no specific person, only those who believe in tabula rasa and its achievement.

She always loves it when it snows, but never so much the day afterwards.

Well, winter's almost over in that weather but I can still hope. Anyway, three days till another year passes in age, goodie (apathetically views room). No true care at this moment, except for my guitar that I feel I have ignored lately.

Oh, it's Valentine's Day (rolls eyes). I guess that should hold some significance but seeing that I don't have a girl to give this any meaning, it doesn't.

I need a skirt at this moment, at least it would relieve some tension. Consider this a proclamation of transvestism (cross-dressing to those unfamiliar with this term) if nothing else was (smiles deviously with pride).

17, that would be about 5 and a half years of leading two separate lives, half a year since I fully accepted this for what it is and currently I am slowly converging these two lives. In this effort that would include telling (in order of occurrence): my best friend, David; Frau Fahy, a teacher of three years with whom I have developed a close friendship; my psychiatrist; and my older sister, Rebecca. I have yet to tell my parents although the thought has intruded upon my mind several times now (give me a year and it will probably happen ).

To those without any particular knowledge of this, there are two types of transvestism. One type involves the person becoming sexual gratified from wearing of clothes associated with the female gender. I believe this is more related to the fetish, but I shall say no more because I do not have that much knowledge on this case. The second type of transvestism is more of an emotional fulfillment. The desire to cross-dress arises from a psychological effeminacy of the person.

This said, I "suffer" from the second type. That is to say, it is at once an emotional and psychological burden and one of the greatest blessings to myself. I shall presently go into specifics of this from reflection of the past. The causes of this are believed to be either psychologically inherent and/or caused by hormones. For my own case it is more hormonal.

At the time this desire occurred it was nearly the summer after fifth grade and I was about half a year into puberty. However it was during fifth grade, upon looking back, that I first noted the occasion of effeminacy. At this grade, it also happened that I fell deeply into depression without reason, being a genetically inherent trait for me. Considering the fact that I constantly contemplated suicide while I was ten and eleven, this becomes disturbing (lol). Evidence of this depression was seen late in the fourth grade though. Anyway the changes in the mind at the time are caused by hormones.

This said, physically I am male, but psychologically I have both male and female characteristics, therefore I can relate to either gender to some extent and have a general annoyance with aggressiveness, competitiveness, and idiocy. Of course this is also affected by the fact that I was raised that violence is not an acceptable answer and that my father himself is not the stereotype of masculinity and acknowledges it. As for my father, I believe this had some genetic root in him as did depression, but I have found doubt as to it reaching this extent. On another note, this unsure psychological state evokes a healthy jealousy/admiration of displays of femininity and a sense of unfairness towards society in the fact that it is socially distasteful by some for a male to outwardly display femininity or the limited because of a single chromosome obtained at conception (which is essentially what it comes down to).

On a final note of occasional thoughts, there are several. One of these is taking this a step further in the presence of society. The beginnings of this have started with a trip to Victoria's Secret to buy a pair of pantyhose, other than meeting with indifference, there was one woman with a tone of compassion in her voice, a good experience in itself. Another is the thought that as soon as I move out I'm shaving my legs.

Anyway, I am curious of others view of transvestism. Whether it's from a viewpoint of studied knowledge, personal opinion, or experience of yourself or others does not matter.

On Thursday, I was in a nervous mood because I was having thoughts of telling my parents. My mom picked up on this anxiety, she is much more intelligent than I give her credit for. Perhaps it is the bond between a mother and her child, or perhaps it is simply because she knows me too well, but she knew something was troubling me. It seemed dreadfully obvious though that I was worried. Anyway, thinking it better not to lie and the fact that this was my opportunity to converge the two separate lives, I said that we would discuss it at dinner. I put on a pair of pantyhose to help me calm down (in case I became nervous when I was talking, they could serve to help me speak towards my purpose). At dinner I basically told my mom just about everything. She inquired as to what exactly I wore although I probably said too much at once. One point she didn't understand was why i take pride in it, more that I don't think she understands how pride is involved.

After dinner I went to sleep and my father was home by then. He was curious as to why I went to bed early, so obviously my mom told him, isn't that sweet (one less time that i had to go through that process, its draining). The next morning I was told he wondered why I didn't come to him first, we have a very close relationship but I wasn't ready. I also heard the next morning that he wants to talk to me, so I await this with interest. To those interested, you have my gratitude for taking the time to read this.

All this week I have been hired by my aunt and uncle to housesit. It's mainly because they have two dogs (female), Tazzy and Tigger. Tazzy is a medium-small dog with a striking resemblance to myself. She is very intelligent and exceedingly introverted, but when she gets hyper, she jumps all over you and gives you strange eyes (as I said I am at once amazed and disconcerted as to how similar we are). Of course I remember when she was a pup how fiesty she was and the first time I met her, her look of fear in her eye and the fact that I was able to hold her in my hands. Then the next time I visited she grew! So strike the second. Tigger, on the other hand, is large (although she wasn't supposed to be), playful, and overall a cute dog. She's not the most intelligent dog in the world, but she is lovable.

So, these are the two ladies I'll be spending my week with. Enjoy it, I will.

Tonight I have read too many comments of those with subtle hatred of the dark, it angers, annoys, and depresses me all at once. My quote comes into my head or at least part of it "but a faceless name writing insights to life few will ever comprehend." (Damn my habit of quoting myself and thinking of my poetry). I am not in a particularly hopeful mood and I believe that existing in the dark only makes one more aware as to how superficial the so called "beauty" of the light truly is, as it relies solely on the point that you must see in order to know it is beautiful. Or perhaps I have fathomed the darkness and been dwelling in isolation for too long. Oh well. I am tempted to write another quote simply because it came to my mind, but it doesn't apply. For I am not merely talking about the silhouettes of objects, their shadowy form in the night, but of nothing. The dark represents nothing because when there is nothing there is only darkness. Sorry if I ramble on, I feel nothing else at the present...

To those who do not know me, I am but a faceless name writing insights to life that few will ever comprehend.It is this that makes any form of art depressing if not done for its own sake. Many write to please others only to find that few people ever care. Others write for those close but even then there is no guarantee for the satisfaction of their approval and support; and then those who write for themselves always find imperfections and strive to amend them only to find all their efforts as futile and, in the end, give up on everything, to depressed to go onward.We all live to die, but there are those who accomplish solely to be remembered afterwards. At the end of their life most of them find that, as a result of their motive, they have not accomplished anything. Of course this is not always true, but most of those who are heroes in their legends did not strive for money or fame but merely to find their place in the world or to make a difference in their own lives or others. The motive that acts for its own sake, such as writing for the sake of writing and the perseverence of the art of writing, is pure and it is by this that most make their mark in the world.